Parousia
by The 8th Stone
Summary: Centuries after members of the legendary Team Free Will sacrificed their lives to avert the Apocalypse, supernatural creatures and creations are common knowledge. Serial truant Dean Winchester meets rogue hunter Castiel, and together they discover secrets hidden in the supernatural world, not to mention strange parallelisms between their time and that of Team Free Will...


**Notes:** I began working on this story a month or so after the season eight finale, so what I didn't have a lot of information about the Men of Letters. What I knew was 1) they viewed hunters as "apes," 2) they know more about the supernatural than most hunters, 3) there were certain levels trainees had to go through, and 4) they could tap into their souls. These are the foundations on which this story's version of the Men of Letters sits.

* * *

**Chapter 1**  
A Brief Glimpse Heavenward

* * *

The strokes are bold, burning—realistic with just the hint of abstract that tints the scene transcendental. The absolute, unforgiving white stretched across the top half of the canvas clashes harshly against the black mass of writhing souls and unholy fires at the bottom in soundless cacophony, a stark contrast that provides no room for the mortal world.

One thousand pairs of eyes in Heaven, gazes glass shards of one thousand shades, and one thousand pairs of human arms in Hell, skin peeling and rotting, reach toward the center of the painting. There, the seraph Castiel struggles to breach the earth, his head lifted up toward his brethren, his halo casting a blinding light against the demons of the Pit. Specks of dust cling to his limbs, shreds of hellfire singes his wings, and his face is turned away, his expression and features indiscernible to the observer.

Gripped tightly in the angel's hands and wrapped protectively around his shadow-like wings is the protagonist of the drama: the Righteous Man—_the_ Righteous Man. Even as the tormented of Hell tear through each other to grab onto his flesh, they marvel at the soul's beauty and look on, stunned by its brilliance. The Righteous Man's eyes are closed, his limbs limp in his angel's arms, though the very tips of his fingers and toes still skim across the underworld's surface, as if he were unable to leave Hell's darkness behind.

His naked body is drawn in the style of classic male beauty, all tight muscles and square features, but there is something undeniably raw about him. Perhaps it is the brutal scars that claw its way across his chest, unhealed or unable to be healed. Perhaps it is the pain carved deep into his brows even as the dream world enraptures his mind. Or perhaps it is simply him, the most human of all creatures in the scene, depicted in such a way that even the humanoid but clearly ethereal angel fails to represent: humanity's strength, hidden within the fragility of flesh and bone.

—

For the better part of the morning, Dean Winchester has sat in the crowded Twenty-First Century Apocalyptic Art exhibition room. The hat he bought at the museum's virtual shop is tucked low over his eyes, and in his hands is a cup of coffee that lost its warmth many hours ago. His ratty backpack smells faintly of the sewage, and the rest of his outfit is equally dirty and mangled.

Some of the tourists take one look at him and cut clearly across the room, deeming him another good-for-nothing delinquent who makes use of his teenage years bumming around in public places—never mind that he has been a legal adult for three years. More often, though, the six hundred-some visitors entering and exiting the gallery ignore him. Parents dart from tour groups like mice, screeching babies perched on moms' and dads' shoulders. Foreigners, as is the majority, chat enthusiastically with each other in foreign tongues. Teenagers narrate their way through the crowd, recording their adventures on multipurpose phones. The scene is mundane, but Dean finds peace in it. Save for the fashion and electronics, this is a scene that might have been repeated for centuries all over the world.

Once, a young girl with tight black curls, no older than six, wanders toward Dean. Matter-of-factedly, as if they had a previous appointment, she introduces herself as Molly and shakes his hand.

"Dean," he says.

"Are you lonely, Mr. Dean?" she asks at once, flopping onto the seat next to him.

"Uh—No, not really. I'm good," he says, smiling. "What about you, kiddo? Where are your parents?"

"Over there." She points at the group of adults who gathered around what looks like a porcupine statue, if porcupines were made of plastic straws and had unicorns puke all over them. Frowning, she says, "The tour guide said it sym-ba-bizes 'hope in the wake of destruction,' but I don't know what that means. Do you know, mister?"

Dean squints at the sculpture then lifts his shoulders, giving up. He has always preferred modern art, with its snazzy digital effects. 3D GIFs are his favorite. Sam never understood their appeal, said it must get boring after seeing pies sprout legs and dance for the twentieth time. To that, Dean had given a loud "Pft, I know, huh?" and superstitiously palmed his phone, where at least one hundred gigabytes' worth of pie GIFs were saved.

He and the strange little girl soon strike up a conversation, talking about everything from Hollywood star Gabriel McSweeton ("Daddy is always jealous because he thinks Mommy loves Dr. Sexy more," she sighs) to philosophies of life ("Without boring museums, there can't be yummy museum ice cream," she says somberly).

It takes a while for the topic to return to the exhibits.

"What's your favorite in this room?" he asks after he finishes explaining why fish don't need to breathe like humans.

Molly places her chin on two fists in such a typical children way that Dean has to smile a little. She stares at the room for a good minute or two before settling on an angel statue near the exit.

"That one," she confirms.

The angel statue is beautiful, motherly, with arms flung wide open as if embracing the crowd. The only resemblance it bears to an actual angel is the two wings on its back, but even those are tiny, like a hummingbird's. It was clearly sculpted before the general population had a good idea of those winged nightmares' true form.

"It looks nice," Dean allows. Because it does—the statue simply doesn't reflect reality.

"I like it. She reminds me of Grandma."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm." She swings her legs high in the air. "Grandma died six months ago. It's fine, though. She's in Heaven now, with the angels. Momma said she'll be happy there. Grandma wasn't very happy before she died. Her heart was sick. She yelled at people and Cindy—that's her dog—a lot, and the doctors couldn't make her feel not-bad. So it's better this way. I'll be a good girl and grow up and grow old, and when I die I'll get to go to Heaven and see Grandma again."

Dean cannot look at Molly in the eye and tell her that Heaven does not work that way, so he musses up her hair and says, "You do that, princess."

"What about you, mister? What is your favorite?"

The question is an easy one. He jabs a thumb behind him, where the biggest crowd gathers.

"_Rise_," he says, "by Becky Rosen."

She eyes the painting critically for a moment before nodding her approval. "I like it too," she says. "What is it?"

"An angel hitching a guy out of, uh," he hesitates, "a bad place."

"Oh." Then she gives him a toothy grin. "You know, Mr. Dean, I think the naked man looks a lot like you."

He has just begun to register what she said when her mother, who finally notices her child has left her side, grabs Molly by the arm and leads her away from the strange young man with purple bags under his eyes. Molly barely gets the opportunity to wave goodbye before the pair vanishes into the crowd.

Dean is sad to see her go. The girl is young but sharp for her age, and it is the first real conversation he had with anyone for a while.

. . .

The Visyak Museum of Art is the ideal hiding place for three reasons:

One, it is warded against all magical and supernatural detection known to mankind, which means it would take Dean's professors a good while before they can find him.

Two, due to traffic congestion, the museum is reachable only by foot or by public transportation—or, more specifically, the Air Tram system. Dean has a great time imagining the high and mighty Alastair snuggling in with the city's "commoners" two hundred yards in the air.

Three, the museum itself is full of the most powerful supernatural artifacts in the world. Whatever devices the Academy uses to track him down will go haywire as soon as they reach here.

"One hundred points to Gryffindor," he says, then glances left and right to make sure no one heard him.

His decision to stay in this specific gallery, however, is prompted by chance. Earlier that morning, he entered the wing after finding himself unable to cram into the Japanese history section. He did not even mean to stay in this room—samurai swords are, in his opinion, much cooler than boring biblical stuff—but then the painting caught his eye.

_Rise_.

Without meaning to, he took a seat, all the while thinking to himself what a poor smuck the Righteous Man was. Getting lifted out of Hell when he never really wanted it. Ending the Apocalypse only with his death, when his Lucifer-possessed brother tore apart his soul.

The next thing Dean knows, he has been staring at the painting for over four hours.

He doesn't understand what he finds so fascinating, apart from the faint affinity he always feels for the man who is his namesake. It is irrational, though, and Dean knows it. He shares nothing with the Righteous Man besides a name and a brother also called Sam. The Righteous Man was a hero who saved half the planet from getting their asses scorched by Michael and Lucifer. Dean is a serial truant who cannot event escape from school properly.

"You're a legacy, Dean," his father told him once, alcohol in one hand and knife in the other—education, the Winchester way. "Do not shirk from your duties."

And Dean wants to. He wants to walk back to the Academy, finish his courses, join the ranks of his ancestors, and become the best goddamn son there ever was for his father—the son he knows he can be. Hell, three years ago, he believed there was no other path for his life to go, and he pursued this road willingly. But three years ago, he didn't know that he would fuck up the aptitude test, didn't know that destiny had apparently chosen a different road for him. As much as he wants to please his father, he yearns to turn his heels and leave Lawrence, Kansas forever. Pack his bags. Escape from the Academy.

Never hear another human being scream under his hands again.

. . .

His favorite jacket hides his uniform from public eye, and he is absentmindedly stroking the Aquarian Star carved onto one of the buttons when a distant howl chills him to the marrow.

The coffee slips from his hands, spilling everywhere on the clear white floor. Few tourists take heed. The ones who do give him a dirty look and walk away. The rest of the room continues as before, as loud and lively as ever.

Shakily, he grabs the cup and stands up. Auto-cleaners are already deployed, skirting ankles to reach the site of the spillage, their signature chirps no more than a faint click above the hubbub.

Dean laughs, a little hysterical.

_No_, he thinks. _Of course they wouldn't... Not in a place like this. There are too many protective wards around these walls. Not even the _headmaster_ would stoop so low—_

The second howl that pierces the air has him dashing for the exit, scrambling through the hallways like a madman, his heart ramming against his ribcage. He may have knocked a few people over, but he doesn't care. They will live; he may not. By the time he slides home-base into a maglev elevator, frightening everyone inside with the wildness that must have been in his eyes, he catches a glimpse of a gigantic shadow flitting past a Sumerian stone tablet. The doors closes with a cheery _ding!_, and the familiar G-force rips the breath out of his lungs as the elevator hurtled downward at ten floors per second.

As soon as he hits floor one, Dean runs like hell is on his heels. He parts the sea of tourists like knife through butter, a loud bark from the next corridor down making him forget the burn in his thighs.

He planned to mix in the crowd when his professors do eventually narrow down his location, but he never planned on engaging in a chase. The museum spans at least four hundred square kilometers, and it will take him thirty minutes just to get to the closest exit. With his choices limited, Dean hops over a row of the turnstiles that, from the looks of them, hasn't been functioning for over a decade.

Immediately, a siren blares, flashing red in the halls.

_Shit_.

"Staff, there is unauthorized personnel in hallway H-532," a robotic voice announces. "Report to hallway H-532 at once. Intruder, this is a warning. Do not advance farther. Repeat: Do not advance farther. Staff, there is unauthorized personnel in hallway H-532. Report to hallway H-532 at once..."

Dean hoped the Visyak's security system did not extend to corners of the museum like these, where the ceilings are peeling tiles and the dust is so thick no one must have entered since 2010. Apparently, Dean should have taken a hint and realized it wasn't his lucky day.

He is sprinting faster than he ever remembers doing in his twenty-one years on Earth, faster than the time he and Victor escaped back to their dormitories after spray-painting the then-headmaster's chamber door; faster than the time he tore through the dilapidated military base to save Sammy from a vengeful colonel's spirit; faster than the time he, dazed and shocked, ran out of the auditorium after his aptitude exam results were announced.

Unfortunately, all that panic-fueled haste does him no good when faced with yards after yards of obstacle. The artifacts first litter the ground then pile into small hills, choking off his speed. Why the museum staff couldn't have shoved them into one of the storage rooms to Dean's left and right, he will never know.

The intruder alert ended a long way back, but Dean can still hear it, the sirens' beat matching the pounding of his own heart. Lights are growing dimmer, and his eyes strain with the effort to see his path. Worse, after nearly tripping over a roll of metal bars, he hears three barks and a high-pitched whine which he recognizes from his studies as a success call—it has acquired his location and locked in on its prey.

Abruptly, the hallway cuts off into a T-intersection. Voices of security guards, both human and robotic, travel from either split, and his pursuer bulldozes its way through from behind, smashing centuries-old pottery and statues and other ancient junk. Allowing the guards to catch him now means being sent back to the Academy and facing unthinkable punishments, but to retrace his steps and allow the creature to grab him will mean being sent back to the Academy and facing unthinkable _pain_. Neither option is looking especially appealing at the moment.

He cannot give up now. He and his friends have planned this escape for the longest time. To turn back now—

A part of his brain asks him why he struggles at all. _Why not just turn yourself in?_ it asks bitterly. _No matter how you fight, the Academy is always where you'll end up. Why prolong the battle?_

Then a smell hits him, wakes him like a slap in the face. He would recognize odor anywhere, having lived for nearly his entire life in dormitories that practically bathed themselves with the scent—

"The most powerful weapon against supernatural beings on this planet," the combat professor, Mrs. Harvelle, once said. "Wars were fought over this thing. Gold was traded pound for pound. Some of the nastiest creatures out there can be defeated by this simple crystal. Never underestimate it."

Salt.

It comes from a door just a little to his left, which, judging by his pocket-sized Detector's lack of response, has no magic seal blocking his way in. With a master thief's experience of breaking-and-entering via years of practical jokes, Dean wastes no time picking the lock and hefting the door open. Once inside, he slams it shut as hard as he can.

The growling lasts for a few seconds longer, then fades away.

He made it. Dean presses his clammy forehead against the cold metal and takes a gigantic breath in. Now, he simply has to line the bottom of the entrance with salt. He has enough material on his person for a temporary cloak-all spell, and now he has enough time to prepare it.

Before he can congratulate himself on his unbeatable wit and fantastic luck, a hand appears from the murky darkness and presses against his mouth.

He lunges backward blindly and achieves nothing more than giving his assailant the opening to catch him around the stomach. Dean wills himself to cool down and remember his Combat training, but the knee to his stomach proves rather inhibitive for his thought processes. His attempts to connect foot with flesh meet only air, and his upper-cut punch results only in his assailant locking his arms down.

"Let—go—of me!" Dean grunts out.

"At this stage, begging is futile."

His assailant even has the whole "deep and gravelly" classic villain voice down. A shiver dances its way down Dean's spine.

The other man sweeps out Dean's legs beneath him, and Dean's face soon greets the ground. His assailant pins his arms behind his back, and a pair of cold something encircles his wrists, followed by a small click.

Perfect. Just perfect.

The pressure on his back lightens, and Dean takes the chance to flip onto his back—not an easy feat when his hands are locked together—and sees, as the room suddenly floods with light, the other man in the room.

But his assailant is not a man at all, but a boy, with messy black hair, a stubbly square jaw, and fierce blue eyes. There is a belt of sheathed knives around his waist, and the long barrel of a musket is visible behind his back. A lit candle rests in his hands, casting a shadow that especially emphasizes the gaunt and hungry lines of the boy's cheeks. Startlingly, Dean realizes the boy looks no older than himself.

Dean is briefly mesmerized. He does not notice that the hunter—for there is nothing else the boy can be—has already flicked open a penknife, until the blade presses against his throat.

At the same time, the door begins to rattle once more. Dean feels the suffocating nausea closing against his throat as panic returns, but the boy doesn't so much as flinch.

"Where did you steal this vessel?" he says, shifting the knife closer to Dean's Adam's apple. His knee nails Dean's chest firmly against the ground. "How long have you been wearing him?"

And just like that, everything comes together.

"You think I'm a demon, don't you?"

Dean guesses that if he were able to see the handcuffs, there would be sigils carved all over. This guy's equipment is top-notch; too bad his assessment of Dean is completely incorrect.

"Stop it," Dean hisses. "Goddamnit, I'm not a demon."

The other boy raises his eyebrows, and for a moment Dean is sidetracked by the boy's eyes, his brilliant, soul-piercing— Dean wants to slap himself. _Get your head out of the gutter_.

"Of course not," Pretty Boy says, deadpan, in that same gravelly voice Dean thought belonged to a much older man. "Someone wanders into this room, in the far corner of the museum, as soon as I summon a demon, and that same someone's bringing a hellhound straight to me. And I'm supposed to write it all off as a coincidence."

"Well, it's the truth. So, uh, _yeah_."

The door shakes again.

He ignores Dean. "You know full well how long my sister and I have been hunting you, Rahovart. Call off your pet."

"I can't!" Dean shouts. "I told you. I'm not a demon. Look"—he nudges his chin toward the ground—"Devil's trap. You drew it. You know it works. But see my feet? Outside the circle. I'm mortal."

"If you can sneak a hellhound into a heavily armed fortress such as the Visyak Museum, you can find a weakness in my circle."

"For the love of God! The hellhound—"

"Will go down the drain with you," the boy says. "Now, if you want this process to go as painlessly as possible, do not speak or attempt to escape while I perform the exorcism." He covers Dean's mouth again and begins the incantation.

Dean continues to thrash about fruitlessly, his mind having ceased to calculate how long it will take for the door to give under the hound's continuous pounding in favor of blaring ESCAPE ESCAPE ESCAPE to every nerve of his body. He rolls his eyes back and sees the door's hinges—really, who the hell still uses _hinges_?—rattle more and more with each of the hellhound's headbutt.

"... _potestas, omnis incursio_..."

But when he lays eyes on the other boy again, the sight that greets Dean is far worse.

There is a man in the museum guard's blue uniform. He is walking toward them at a leisurely pace—despite flinching with every word of the exorcism. When he sees Dean looking, he grins, his smile as wicked as a blade. His eyes flash black.

Dean redoubles his efforts to escape and bites down against his captor's palm. The boy winces but does not remove his hand. Dean then strains the muscles of his neck to jerk his head toward the space behind the boy's shoulder, but the chanting continues.

The man reaches for the boy's neck.

"... _adversarii, omnis congregatio_..."

There won't be enough time. Dean has known the exorcism since he was six. The demon—Rahovart—is playing with them, timing his approach exactly.

Dean closes his eyes.

"..._et secta d_—"

_Another person's blood is on your hands_, the voice inside his head whispers.

The demon's roar of anguish punches through the air like a gunshot, but it is the droplet of liquid that lands on his face which has Dean blinking at the sight before him. Rahovart is doused in water, smoking, and reeling back as if burned.

Holy water. But how? Dean glances back at the boy. Did he...? No. He is watching the demon, his surprise every bit as real as Dean's. Then who—?

"I believe what you were about to say," a voice behind the giant statue drawls out lazily, "was '_et secta diabolica_.'"

Rahovart lets out an agonizing scream before he is expelled from his vessel, forming a cloud of black smoke at the ceiling.

Jolted out of his awe, Dean wrenches the hand from his mouth and shouts at twice the hunter's pace: "_Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!_"

The smoke flattens to the ground, burning through tiles and seeping through the foundations of the museum. At Dean's feet, the museum guard opened his eyes, grunts once, then passes out.

The door bursts open, a quick succession of barks and howls signaling the hellhound's entrance. But instead of pushing Dean to the ground and grinding him into meat paste, it pads over to the salt statue, steps marked by puffs of dust that curl from its invisible paws.

Dean feels his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach.

"Good girl, good girl," compliments the voice from earlier. This time, Dean can easily distinguish the Scottish tinge that colors the man's speech. "You've done wondrously today, dear. Daddy's very proud. Now, go—fetch!"

Nothing appears to be thrown, but the hellhound yips once and silences.

For a moment, no one dares to speak. Light spills through the doorway, but none of the museum staff enters. A draft from the halls causes the candlelight to waver.

"You're controlling a hellhound, but you're not affected by the exorcism," the boy finally speaks. He brings his gun to his chest. "What are you?"

Dean holds up his arm. "Don't. He's—"

"My God, you kids these days have the most horrendous manners. Is this how you treat the man who pulled you out of certain doom?" A short, shrewd-eyed man rounds the statue and stands in front of Dean and the hunter. His smile is mocking. "Hello, boys."

"Crowley," Dean spits, even as he feels his voice beginning to tremble.

"Fergus Rodric McLeod Crowley?_ The_ Crowley?" The name obviously strikes a chord in the hunter. "Senior member of the Men of Letters?"

"Oh, good," Crowley says, pleased. "Button-face here isn't completely hopeless after all, though I think I'm better known to civilians as the headmaster of the Academy for Children and Young Adults of Exceptional Futures."

"Training camp for Men of Letters candidates," the hunter says tonelessly.

"Excellent! But I can't take the entire spotlight. For example, Squirrel here is a honest-to-God student at the Academy. Now, isn't he a celebrity?"

Dean ignores Crowley's jab. "How were you able to enter this place?"

"Nuh-uh-uh, my dear. It's all part of your core curriculum. No spoilers. Why don't you wait another three years, when _all secrets shall be revealed_. I mean," Crowely shrugs, "unless you don't _wish_ to return anymore, Winchester?"

"You are _both_ Men of Letters?" the young man asks in astonishment.

"Well, Dean is more of a... _star pupil_," says Crowley, quoting Alastair's words. "But yes, that is more or less correct."

"Take me out of Interrogation," says Dean, his voice low, "and I'll go back with you voluntarily. That's my offer."

"Ah, but Dean, unfortunately, I don't think you're in a position to make a deal. Plus," Crowley smiles, "don't act as if you don't love it."

Dean's nails dig into his palm, and he feels his skin break beneath the pressure.

"Here's _my_ deal," Crowley says, walking closer. "Why don't _you_ follow _me_ quietly back to the Academy? You don't even have to thank me for saving your little friend over there. The teleportation spell has drained quite a few of my colleagues, and repeating it would just make them more eager to punish you. And there are those who will enjoy it very much, aren't I right? Well, one, specifically."

Bile surges up Dean's throat.

The hunter steps forward, almost as if he is shielding Dean. There is a finger around the gun's trigger, Dean notices. "Excuse me, but may I ask what you mean by punishing him?"

"What are you doing?" Dean hisses. "This is none of your business. I don't need your help. Get out while you still can." _You don't know what he can do._

"Such chivalry. How absolutely touching." Crowley rolls his eyes. "Oh, you hunter types. Always so eager to put your filthy noses where they don't belong. You have no idea what you're dealing with here, do you? Don't you know how miserable I can make your life without even dirtying my own hands?" Then, out of nowhere, his entire visage changes, the easy-going attitude melting away into lividness. "Stand aside, you little savage, and let the grownup in the room handle this!"

"I don't think I see a grownup around here." To his credit, the hunter does not stutter at all. "Just a bully with too much power on his hands."

Dean's eyes flickers between the man and the boy. Crowley's eyes harden, but just as abruptly as it slipped off, his mask reappears.

"You got guts, kid," he says as he begins to circle the salt statue. "I'll admit that. But whether having guts is just another form of stupidity is another discussion altogether, a discussion that will take time... back at school."

"I thought you said I have a choice to go quietly?" Dean asks.

"Did I?" Crowley taps his chin, then shrugs. "Oh well. The offer expired." He smiles. "Time to go home."

The blood from Dean's palm flows freely down his fingers. As soon as Crowley opens his mouth, he acts.

"Actually, Crowley, you know what? You can take that charity"— Dean kneels and draws a triangle, the Greek letter delta, with his blood—"and shove it right up your ass."

Dean reached for a pinch of rosemary from his pocket—

But Crowley does not move.

Crowley does not move, and this is what ultimately stops Dean, because the only thing more dangerous than Crowley is his silence.

His palm throbbing, Dean slides his eyes to the left.

The hunter boy stands there, deceptively calm, but his eyes stare straight ahead, his spine unnaturally straight. He does not even appear to be breathing.

Horror grips Dean. How could he not have noticed?

"Look above you, Dean."

He doesn't, because he doesn't need to. He knows what he will find on the ceiling: a crude binding circle, little wider than his shoulders, glowing directly above the hunter, like a halo—no, more like a crown of thorns.

And if there is one binding circle, there is a multitude of others.

Peace settles over Dean, and he feels a small bubble of laughter rising from his throat. So Crowley did intend to lead him here after all.

So he did.

"Release him, Crowley," Dean says. "He's innocent."

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "Surrendering already, Winchester? You're losing your touch."

He waves his hand, and the boy unfreezes from his position, falling to his knees and dry heaving. Dean shrugs off his jacket, and it falls to the floor, along with all of the weapons he could possibly use to escape.

"Dean—" the hunter croaks. His bloodshot eyes peek behind ragged bangs, pleading for something Dean cannot understand.

Crowley snaps his fingers. Now without the protection of Ruby's hex bags, Dean fully expects the spell that follows, but it still takes him by surprise, like the other dozens of times. His body goes into overdrive: the energy in every single one of his cells is being burned away until only the barest levels are left to in order sustain his organs. When the last of pain leaves the tip of his fingers, he crumples to the ground. Blood begins to pool at his temple, warm and wet.

He has approximately thirty seconds before his brain catches up with the rest of his body and shuts himself down—enough time for him to hear the hunter grunt out, deep and guttural, and for him to hear Crowley say, "Let me share a little secret with you, boy. Dean here is actually due for an appointment outside the Academy with the bigger guys upstairs. That's the real reason he tries so hard to escape, even if he doesn't even know himself. But let me tell you right now, hunter: I promise that I'll be doing my damned hardest to ensure that he never, _ever_ leaves those walls."


End file.
